Take Care
by DetectiveSilence
Summary: One-shot. Sherlock and John chase down a criminal, among other things. But, really, Sherlock should take better care of himself...


Little one-shot.

Sherlock chased the killer through the dark alleyway, his feet thumping a steady rhythm on the empty road. He could hear John behind him, sprinting to keep up with him on his short legs. John was not a bad runner, but his genetics were his downfall: he was just too short sometimes to keep up, and this was one of those times.

Sherlock took a sharp left turn, hot on the heels of the killer. The brick walls either side whizzed past, the individual bricks merging into one continuous brick-red line as he resumed his earlier pace (as taking the corner had slowed him down considerably). He was 2 metres away from the man he was chasing, but gaining slowly. He had had a gun, John's gun, but he had emptied it on the man's accomplice, and then given it back to John. No, this time he was going to have to tackle the man to the ground, and wait for the police to arrive.

He was just a metre away from the man, so close he could reach out his arm and grab him, but before he could do so, the killer turned another corner and emerged into the bright daylight. Sherlock kept on running, but he stumbled slightly as he recovered his sight. He saw the killer running towards the park, and he pursued. He heard John stumble behind him, blinded by the light, but he didn't have time to stop and check he was okay. It was John, he'd be_ fine_. He did survive Afghanistan, after all.

Sherlock followed the killer across the park, pushing past easy-going tourists and local families. They just kept getting in the way; didn't they know that he was chasing a known criminal across the park? Really, people were just so _thick_ sometimes! Sherlock followed the killer through the kids area, and then across the grass, fresh from last night's shower. It was still early in the morning, but it was already bright, and the sun was shining in his eyes. Nevertheless, he carried on his chase. He was now just a meter away from the killer, and they were running across open grass. There were no obstacles and no sudden turnings that the killer could take. Sherlock decided to risk it, and took a leap of faith.

He lunged towards the man, and his momentum carried them both along the grass. They scrabbled, each trying to get the upper hand on the slick grass. Sherlock's hand slipped, and the man took the opportunity and tried to get away. But Sherlock's lightning-fast reactions were better than he suspected, and he grabbed on to the killers ankle. The large man sprawled across the grass, and Sherlock quickly got him in a headlock, careful to keep the man from slipping through his grasp. He saw John run up to them, handcuffs in hand. Wait, _handcuffs_? Since when did John carry _handcuffs_? Sherlock let John handcuff the killer, and sat up, his hair sticking out in places and his breath short. He got his breath under control, and joined John, who was handing the fugitive to the police, who had finally managed to catch up, and raised a questioning eyebrow.

"Since when did you carry handcuffs?"

John looked back at him with a knowing smile, pleased that the police weren't going to lose the criminal in the next 5 minutes.

"Since that time when you sat on the terrorist for a full 25 minutes before the police arrived to take care of him."

The corner of Sherlock's lips rose slightly. That had been a fun case. Lots of little hints and tip-offs and a lovely little mystery to solve. He did remember having to sit on the criminal to make sure he didn't escape, and he had to admit, he had enjoyed that, but he understood John's reasoning behind getting handcuffs. John was not stupid, unlike some people.

John and Sherlock were in the taxi back to 221B, after a long day of, well, _stuff. _First of all, he and Sherlock had chased a killer through the alleyways behind a known safe-spot before emerging into a park, and then continued to chase him through that until Sherlock finally caught him. Then, they had had to escort the killer, along with the police, back to the police station,_ on foot_ (he really wasn't sure why they had had to show the police where their own head-quarters and holding cells were, and wasn't entirely sure he wanted to know). Then they had had to go in for questioning (it really would have been a lot simpler if Lestrade _hadn't_ picked that week to go on holiday), and later they had had to go back to the safe-spot to present the evidence. They had had to convince the detective inspector on duty that they weren't the killers, and that they were spying on the man by pure coincidence (truth was, they were following a lead from a man who John had been told 'under no circumstances to mention'). Then, they had had to help Molly with some work (as repayment for the washing machine incident), and had just now been called to a new crime scene. The scene had been unusual, but nothing Sherlock couldn't manage (he hoped). Now, finally, they were on the way back to the flat, at a little past 12 o' clock at night. He was exhausted.

The cab stopped outside their flat, and John paid the driver. He and Sherlock got out of the cab, and Sherlock bound up to the door of 221. He put his hand out to the door, and seemed to pause. John caught up with him, a frown on his face. Was there something wrong?

"Sherlock, are you okay?

"Yes, yes, I'm fine…" Sherlock said, a distracted tone in his voice. He shook his head slightly, as if to clear it, and unlocked the door. Sherlock and John stepped into the warmth of the flat, and took off their coats. Sherlock walked up the stairs, John close behind. Suddenly, Sherlock stopped, causing John to bump into him, at the door to the living room.

"Sherlock, if there something wrong?"

"mmh? No…" Sherlock said, putting a hand to his head, and resting against the wall. His face was unusually pale, and his eyes somewhat unfocused.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock stumbled to his feet, and walked through into the living room.

"I'm fine, I'm fine." He insisted. He walked over to his chair, and then paused, swaying slightly. He then collapsed gracefully to the ground, his face barely missing the chair. John rushed forwards, his flatmate's sudden collapse unexpected._ Of course, who expects their flatmate just to collapse?_

Sherlock woke up to the smell on tea_. mmh, tea._  
_Damnit_, Sherlock, _focus_!  
Right, first things first, 5 senses.  
Sight: Nothing yet.  
Sound: Slightly muffled. Someone familiar humming. Kettle boiling. Cups. Cutlery. Oven. Television in the background. Conclusion: Someone is cooking. Possibly 221B, or other house.  
Smell: Tea. Bacon. Other food, possibly breakfast. Familiar. Slight wool. Cosy. Conclusion: Smells like John. Making breakfast. In 221, obviously.  
Touch: Soft, springy material under fingers. Conclusion: Sofa.  
Taste: Nothing.

Conclusion: John, making breakfast, with bacon and tea, in 221B, where he is lying on the sofa. Enough information to show consciousness.

Sherlock opened his eyes and raised his head wearily. John was in the kitchen, making breakfast.

"John?" Sherlock said in his most pitiful voice, hoping to get John's good side. Maybe the reason he was unconscious was a bad one. John was not someone to be on the wrong side of.

John turned towards him, a small smile on his face.

"Ah! I was wondering when you were going to wake up."

Sherlock looked at him sheepishly.

"What… happened?"

"You collapsed."

"Why?"

"Because you weren't taking care of yourself. Lack of sleep, lack of food, you exhausted yourself, Sherlock. Honestly, sometimes I wonder about that supposed 'genius'…"

Sherlock smiled. No matter what happened, John always managed to keep a level head.

"So… is that for me?" Sherlock asked, looking longingly at the bacon that was sizzling quietly in the kitchen.

"Sure." He said, laughing slightly. "Just make sure that you take better care of yourself next time!"

Do please review. PLEASE!


End file.
